The solace of rebelling

against rest

away from

my maternal acres,

free before

tomorrow’s working day,

before the gipsyman time:

Free, I will not slow down

nor curb my abandon

I dream a cabin,

I dream a jail

then awake

coaxed closer to the road,

a tribal sort of reinvention,

a tribunal of sorts

written on the interstate

This is why we travel,

all travel a means

to go on thirsting

through the dry world

in multitudes

up and down the coast

We speed away then

speed back home

broke, hungry,

an ocean retreats to our right

a mountain erodes on the left

in between,

the ragged miles,

the traces of motion

Eventually we lay

in familiar tombs,

the sigh, the pulse

of night hours passing,

Reborn in our formulaic dawn.

Phil Lane has lived in New Jersey, Pennsylvania and the Netherlands. He now lives in North Carolina and works as a bookseller in Raleigh.